As I sat straddling the cooling, butchered pieces of the late girl's pale figure I knew that despite who that was behind the door I was caught. My next action would have to take place quickly and it would have to be a good one, or else I'd be looking towards an easy death sentence.
The problem was thinking of a way to escape this room a horrid massacre, a room which was so simple and may very well now be the essence of some peoples' dreams. The walls had blood splattered up and down their white, cool surfaces and the cold, hard floor was slick with the red, chilling liquid.
The bodies were laying cold and dank, one completely unattended as the other lay piece-by-piece beneath a freak of life and nature, a true maniac or perhaps only an amateur, high school killer, it was up to the viewer to decide on this. That door would open in seconds, the person behind it would lay witness to the darkest things that most people could imagine, things they'd never expect. The horrors I had created were what some would prefer to walk into the sun before seeing, they were brutal acts of the highest crimes yet artwork in my mind, the only truely beautiful things of nature.
I had not created revenge, no, revenge was something bitter and cold, out of anger. My first acts were out of revenge and cold-blood, this was art, this was my very human nature at full bloom, I had to have more but first I had to escape, and I knew this may very well be my biggest of all challenges.
I looked down at my victim, then to the other, I knew what I had done. I was aware of my master pieces and I knew that nobody would appreciate them like I did, humans truly are pathetic vermin. They don't understand that what I have created was not a sin, not wrong, it was beauty, it was human nature at full blossom and what we all have deep inside, it was genius.
I was thinking back to times which had been so previous. the times I had gotten revenge on Jessi and Shannon. the things that I wanted to do when I was younger.
I was truly a master at heart, such sheltered potential just aching to escape my cold heart, the dreams of destruction and murder, hacking and burning as I gradified myself in the worst of ways, or were they the best?
I had finally gotten a taste of what I had so long secretly desired, my heart's true passion. I had tasted pain.
This was only the beginning, it had to be, I could never have such dark thoughts, such horribly beautiful dreams were I to be done so quickly. This would be my art, my life. I was the fucking genius of my little town, I was the only truly superior human these people had ever known.
I knew what life was about, and I accepted my nature.
the nature to kill. When I was only five years old I remember dreaming such things as fires and blood, some things so horrible that when I told anyone about them they'd either insult me or give me a cold, morbid stare that told me I was some sort of moster, but I didn't understand.
These dreams of falling lumber with glowing flames raging, people being slaughtered and crushed by them. The dreams of which a young girl would be ganged up on by a number of men and forced into the most mind-breaking positions and situations, the girls cried and bled as they were prodded and fucked but I could only laugh and giggle, like an insane child which I may have been, or was I the only sane one?
I remember a dream I had of a young woman, no more than twenty or so, entered a church to confess her sins. She had a fair toned skin and brown eyes, long light blonde hair that reached her shoulders twice and the most curving figure I had seen at that age.
Her waist was fair and her breasts were firm and round, large, too big for my small hands but not for the priest. She confessed to sexual things, things my mind didn't understand but I did like to hear. She said things such as she had slept with a man and woman at once, performed with several people at one time and not all of the opposite sex.
I didn't know these things at the time but I enjoyed them, and so did the priest. A young, tall man in black with a collar half up his neck. His hair curly and so dark it was like the night, his eyes a strange shade of pale baby blue that was cold and soothing alike. His voice was deep but young, and his face cleanly shaven. In the dream I could see him rub himself now and again as she'd confess her dark acts, he was enjoying it and she had no idea.
After some time of dirty, sexual words from the beautiful woman she saw the guard between them raise. She was pulled through a ways by a firm hand and her throat was slit with a gushing of blood and a muzzled scream. He entered her side and began to savagly fuck her cunt almost instantly, her dead body rattling limply, completely lifeless.
I didn't know why I liked this, and I didn't know why I saw it, but both were very true. This was amazing, and it was only when I was five or so, such sweet potential. I remember the dead girl's eyes, dead but full of life at the same time, so horrified.
Like a picture. She had no soul but her eyes were frozen with terror and shock, but she was only a thing of the past. I saw so many things like that, so many things that were considered terrible that I loved. Like when I dreamt a girl was fucking her boyfriend in the back seat of their car on a look-out point.
They hit the car into neutral by mistake and didn't notice. The car began to roll and with their wild moment of bliss and ecstacy they didn't notice. By the time they did the front wheels were off the edge, looming over the rocks below and soon followed the rest of the car. They tumbled down for what seemed to be hours.
The car hit hard at a perfect angle and exploded, I heard screams of pain and fear. The police found nothing more than two bodies welded not only to the car but to each other as well, the car was in pieces and so were the bodies, it was a complete tragedy, something I wanted to see for real.
As time went on these dreams got more realistic, and so did my craving to see more. It grew into an addiction, I filled journals full of my darkest fantasies and dreams, they came out of me as poems and short stories but they were what I enjoyed, and not until my third journal filled did I realize they were beginning to look strange.
I had began to write them out like plans. blueprints to my darkest fantasies. I wrote down all the dark thoughts that ran through my head, I didn't miss a detail from when I was 5 and beyond.
I wrote about the pregnant woman who had her twins cut out of her stomach and eatten as she died. I wrote about the young girl, no more than seven, who took a meat cleaver from the kitchen and split her father's face down the center for having touched her tender spots a week before-hand.
Soon I realized some of these acts of mutilation were performed by me in my dreams, and to people I knew as well as strangers. I never showed anyone these journals, not a soul. Everyone at first wanted to see, but as time grew on, as I changed and became stranger, more.
like my current self, people started to back away, they didn't care anymore as long as they were distant from me, the little boy who once seemed so innocent, Erika. I was one fucked up child, but I loved how I was and that never changed. People change a lot over the years but at the same time they don't change at all, they're still always the same person they were born to be. None of that was important now, that door was openning and I had to act on pure instincts, not plans, that would take too long.
The door was nearly completely open, I could see a hand on the edge of the door, just no face yet, they were still behind the door, I had to know who it was but by their hand they're were male and white, little help that was to me. I only sat there watching, I couldn't do much else at the present time, I could tell the person already saw the dead teacher, the way that door stopped as if they weren't sure if they wanted to continue in.
They must have decided against stopping though, because the door was now fully open, the person who had intruded upon my buffet of sex and blood was in full view. and his identity set my mind into a whole new set of thoughts.
I remember. the look on Shannon's face the first time I raped her.
she was so horrified and weak, so pathetic. I could tell she had wanted to get away the whole time that I rammed her tight little cunt which wasn't all that tight. I remember how her body tried to stay still and her mind just begged it to be over, I could tell she was going through mental anguish to the max, she'd never lost such pride before, being violated by an enemy.
She had to be disgusted. Then when she got it the second time, only that time she had to die, which was more fun. The way her eyes were shot open with death, the large openning in her neck and the way her body was pinned to that tree, the horror of death, the pain. It was perfect, she had not only been violated twice by her enemy, but brutally defeated; butchered. She was so much fun, feeling her cold, limp corpse against me as I raped the pinned flesh, but that was just the beginning.
I remember. how Jessi acted, and how pathetic she was after it all took place. She wouldn't tell I soul, I was sure of it with the identity of the intruder, it would have been someone of higher authority if she had told. I killed this new girl for little purpose other than art, but the teacher had to die because he was gonna get in the way, which isn't good. Stage four had hardly been a step in my revenge but it brought on Stage Five and truly the final stage in the specific revenge acts at hand, or so I thought.
This was not complete, no no no, this was just the beginning. I would never quite until I lost completely, and today was not that day. I loved how Jessi and Shannon looked.
it was amazing, I remembered everything so perfectly. Such art. such skill. But I couldn't believe it was Tony who had found me of all people, he must have had a lock-pick, I knew he watched me lately, and he probably saw me take this girl into the side-hall. He didn't see me yet. he was too busy thinking about not thinking, being confused and scared. I think now and then he'd glance at me briefly, but he was in denial of what he saw I took it, he had never seen something like this, but he soon would more first-hand.